


life has an (un)hopeful undertone

by armyofbees



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Gen, Ghosts, Metaphors, Suicidal Thoughts, also sort of, it's all very dark but the ending has ice cream so?, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 10:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10762287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armyofbees/pseuds/armyofbees
Summary: John wonders, dully, why he doesn’t have a hole in his abdomen. Surely, it belongs there, doesn’t it? His blood belongs there. His heart belongs there—bleeding silver out for all to see. It belongs there, and he does not belong here. He belongs with ghosts and whispers and mumblings and impressions. He belongs with gray skin and sad eyes and screaming that only he can hear. He does not belong here.--John Laurens died in the battle of Combahee River. He did not plan on coming back to life.





	life has an (un)hopeful undertone

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I should probably be writing other things but inspiration struck, so this happened. I'd like to say that suicide is a very heavy theme with this, so just be careful. Also, John is in a Not Good place in this, and I don't agree with his views on suicide. It's never the answer, and if you can help it, you shouldn't let another person do it. It impacts EVERYONE. Thanks and take care of yourselves.

John wonders, dully, why he doesn’t have a hole in his abdomen.

Surely, it belongs there, doesn’t it? His blood belongs there. His heart belongs there—bleeding silver out for all to see. It belongs there, and he does not belong here. He belongs with ghosts and whispers and mumblings and impressions. He belongs with gray skin and sad eyes and screaming that only he can hear. He does not belong here.

A shoulder jostles his and he stumbles, sees the ground leap before his eyes, sees the man continue walking. His silver blood screams in his veins. He should not be able to feel.  _ He does not belong here. _

The street is claustrophobic and nobody stops to steady him as he staggers away. He finds himself safe, safe, safe, in a dark alley. Safe, because that’s what the darkness is, now. Safe, because it means he is alone. Safe, because he can feel the wet breath of ghosts on his back and he can pretend with the gray skin and sad eyes and screaming again.

He falls against the wall, breathes heavily, feels again for the hole that  _ belongs there. _ It is gone, and he feels empty. He wonders if it is the wrong thing to feel.

He knows how he died. He  _ knows _ how he died. He can still feel the bullet, falling, the hard ground. He can still remember how the sky looked on that day—clear, cloudless—it’s mocking him. He remembers the way that no one came to him as he died, how they kept fighting, and how he wished he could be with them. He wishes he could say he died as he lived—fighting. He would be lying.

He died happily. He died exactly how he wanted to, bleeding silver all over his stomach, his hands, the grass. He died thinking of Martha and Frances and Alexander. He died knowing that when he was gone, they would all be better off. He died knowing that they would sleep easier without him.

Now, he sinks against the wall of the alley and bites his wrist so that he won’t cry. Out of frustration, out of fear, out of out of out of—what does it matter? He won’t do it.

He wonders if this is God’s cruel joke. He curses the sky, because he knows it won’t do any good, but it feels like he’s  _ doing something. _

He doesn’t realize when the day shifts, but the stars are out and he finds himself leaning against a tree, face in his hands. How did it go?  _ Raise a glass to freedom. _ Yeah, right. He’ll raise a glass when he’s in the ground, when he’s free. He’ll raise a glass when this hellish dream ends, when his silver blood has been spilled all over again.

He wonders who decided to give him this, this second chance. He wonders if that’s what they meant by this. He wonders if they realized, as they did this, that he didn’t want this, that all he could do was spill his silver again.

He doesn’t remember how to sleep, because it’s been so long, because he doesn’t think he could, anyway, and God, isn’t this what he chided Alexander about so many times before? It’s later when he stands and walks.

He doesn’t know where he is. He sees the cars on the street, sees them whir by, and wonders if they’d realize if he were to step out in front of them. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? And he would just be another face in the crowd, he could be nothing. He  _ is _ nothing. He knows it.

He finds himself on a bridge. He’s leaning over the edge, just to see the way the light reflects on the water. It’s silver, like his blood, like his heart. He almost wants to touch it, and he doesn’t realize he’s reached out his hand until he’s being dragged away from the edge and there’s yelling, there’s yelling, but he can’t comprehend what’s being said.

He gets to his feet, and he’s shaky, but he can run fast enough, and he does. His heart is pounding, and the silver feels light in his veins.

There’s a blaring noise, and he sees lights coming toward him,  _ fast. _ God? no, God is too cruel for this. The lights swerve and there’s yelling and he stumbles from the street.  _ What the hell was that? _ A car.

He doesn’t quite understand everything, but he doesn’t really want to, so instead he finds himself in another alley, biting his wrist and screwing his eyes shut.

He has a headache but it doesn’t compare to his heartache and he thinks that he should really sleep, because maybe if he sleeps, he won’t have to wake up. At the very least, he won’t have to think for a while, and that’s what he wants, but oh, right—he’s forgotten how.

The night is long. He finds himself back on the bridge, and it’s too late now for anyone to be there. He’s pretty sure they think they’re helping, the people who pull others away from this. He’s been through this before, and they’re not. They’re not, because he  _ knows _ he doesn’t want to be here, he  _ knows _ he doesn’t want to live, he  _ knows he doesn’t belong. _

He tries not to be bitter, he tries not to hate them, he tries he tries he tries. He fails. He is glad when nobody tries to stop him this time, glad when he can stand on the rail and let the wind blow through his hair and set his silver blood rushing again. He hates whoever kept this from him.

The cars either don’t notice him or don’t care as they pass by, and he feels so  _ alive _ that he thinks jumping would ruin it. He doesn’t step down.

The sky lights up and he stays standing, stays watching. His blood doesn’t rush, but his mind is quiet, and for once, he doesn’t want to do anything. He wants to be.

It’s when the sky is rosy and the sun has just peeked over the horizon that a girl comes and sits on the rail next to him. She swings her feet over the water, perched precariously on the edge, and he thinks she looks like peonies.

“Came to jump?” she asks, nonchalant, like it’s normal. He guesses it is, because he’s nothing, so of course it is.

“Not really,” he replies. But that’s a lie. “Well. I did. But that was last night.”

“Don’t your legs hurt?” she asks. She doesn’t look at him.

“I’ve forgotten what that feels like,” he tells her. He’s sure they should, but he’s got peonies next to him and roses in the sky so it’s okay.

“It’s like… if your feet were to split in two,” the girl says. “Like you’ve been standing for so long that your feet feel like they’re gonna come apart just from the pressure. Like your knees are pressing down on your shins, so hard that they’re gonna crack. Like you’re gonna shatter and fall apart.”

John doesn’t stop looking at the sky, but he hums. “My feet feel like they haven’t stood in centuries, like they need practice. Like this is their only chance.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” the girl says, looking up at him. “If they need more chances, let’s take a walk.”

“This is fine,” he says, because he doesn’t want to leave the roses that are becoming tiger lilies, are becoming marigolds.

“Okay,” she says, and swings her legs.

John wonders why she’s sitting with him, why she’s still sitting with him, because it’s been hours and he can only imagine. He watches the sky become bluebells, and watches the sun rise slowly, oh so slowly.

He sits next to her, and his feet are numb as he lets them dangle. She doesn’t look at him.

“Why?”

“Hm?”

“Why jump?” she asks, watching her feet hang above the water.

He shrugs. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just says, “Wanted to.”

“Wanted?” she says, this time looking at him, catching his eye. Her eyes are pools of water, of the ocean. He wonders if jumping into them would be the same as jumping off the bridge. “Past tense?”

He doesn’t reply. He lifts his feet up and looks at them, then sits cross-legged. “Don’t want to now,” he tells her finally. “Probably will later.”

She swings around abruptly and hops off of the railing. “Let’s get ice cream.”

John stares after her and she spins on her heel, clapping her hands. “As long as you’re not gonna jump, and I haven’t had breakfast, we might as well make the best of it.”

John slips slowly off of the railing. The sky is made of bluebells and his blood is made of silver and this girl in front of him is made of peonies, and he doesn’t want to jump. And he hasn’t had breakfast, either.

“Okay.”

For a second, he feels like he belongs.


End file.
